Josephine’s eyes held on McBride for long, threatening moments; then he turned to the girl again. He said, loud enough for McBride to hear: ‘‘I’ve got to talk to Dora about letting saddle trash like that in here.’’
McBride was stung and he felt a surge of hot, rising anger. The kitten sensed the man’s tension and its amber eyes studied his face, its small body suddenly rigid. It took a tremendous effort of will, but McBride let Josephine’s comment go. Thinking back, he’d been called worse in New York, where the sullen denizens of Hell’s Kitchen were never at a loss for an insult when it came to the police.
Sticks and stones may break my bones . . .
McBride smiled to himself. He’d often recited that when he was a kid and there was a lot of truth to the old saying. He breathed deep, relaxed and when their food came he and the kitten ate as though they were starving. Which, of course, they both were.
The food was good and when he’d eaten, McBride sighed and pushed back from the table. The calico kitten, full of chicken, curled up in his lap and promptly fell asleep.
Then it happened.
Lance Josephine had been talking intently but quietly to the girl. Now his voice rose with his anger. ‘‘You will, Clare, because I say you will. We’ll get married tomorrow by Judge Preston if I have to horsewhip you and then drag you to his office by the hair.’’
Josephine’s thick fingers closed tightly on the girl’s hand, squeezing hard, and her face went pale with pain. The matronly waitress was standing helplessly at the kitchen door, a look of horror in her eyes.
‘‘Lance, no, you’re hurting me,’’ the girl said, her beautiful mouth twisted in agony.
McBride sprang to his feet, the frightened kitten jumping from his lap. Rain spattered against the restaurant window and a distant rumble declared that the thunder was returning.
Before McBride had time to act, a large, big-bellied man wearing a cook’s stained apron brushed past the waitress. He had a meat cleaver in his hand. ‘‘Here now, Mr. Josephine,’’ he said, stepping toward the young man’s table. ‘‘That won’t do.’’
Lance Josephine slowly turned his head and glanced up at the cook. McBride thought he looked like a snake contemplating a rat. Josephine jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying, and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. He fired into the cook and the man shrieked and staggered back a couple of steps. The cleaver dropped from his hand, clanking onto the wood floor.
Josephine fired. Then fired again. Hit three times in the chest, the cook slammed against the wall, then fell heavily to his left. The restaurant shook when his body hit the floor.
Lance Josephine was smiling. His cold eyes moved from the waitress to McBride. ‘‘You both saw it. He came at me with a meat cleaver. It was self-defense.’’ He turned and looked down at the girl, who was frozen in place, her expression stunned. ‘‘You saw it too, Clare. He gave me no choice.’’
The woman made no answer. McBride was aware of the waitress’s strangled cry as she threw herself on the dead man’s body and of his own flaming rage. He took a step toward Josephine. ‘‘You low-life piece of human filth, you murdered that man!’’
Lance Josephine’s eyes were black with death. He started to bring up his gun, his mouth a tight, hard line. McBride reached into his coat and pulled his .38 Smith & Wesson. ‘‘Go ahead, I want to kill you real bad,’’ he said.
A fast draw from a shoulder holster was the last thing Josephine had expected and it threw him. He hesitated an instant, his shocked eyes on the .38, and that gave McBride the time he needed. The big man swung his revolver with all the power he could muster. The barrel crashed into the bridge of Josephine’s nose, smashing bone. Blood splashed thick and scarlet over the man’s mustache and rolled down his chin. He lifted his head, took a staggering step back and triggered his Colt.
McBride heard the thin, vicious whisper of the bullet as he struck out again. He slammed the gun barrel into the side of Josephine’s head and the man groaned and dropped like a felled ox.
The waitress was sobbing over the body of the dead cook and McBride’s eyes moved from her to the girl. He called her by name. ‘‘Clare, go get the marshal.’’
The woman looked at him, her shocked eyes uncomprehending.
‘‘Get the marshal—now!’’ he yelled.
Like someone rousing herself from a trance, Clare let out a shuddering breath, then rose to her feet and ran past McBride to the door. She turned and glanced at him briefly. Her look told him that he too had a share in the violence that had overtaken her.
McBride holstered his revolver and took a knee beside the cook. ‘‘I’ve sent for the marshal,’’ he said. He looked directly into the waitress’s eyes. ‘‘Did you know him well?’’
The woman’s plump cheeks were streaked with tears, heavy as the relentless rain running down the restaurant window. ‘‘I’ve known him for thirty-two years,’’ she said. ‘‘He is my husband.’’
At a loss for words, McBride put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. Lance Josephine groaned and stirred. He sat up and took his bloody face in his hands, rocking back and forth.
McBride watched the man, his eyes cold and hard. He’d never wanted to shoot anyone so badly in his life as he did then.
Chapter 6
Boot heels thumped on the floor behind him, and McBride rose to his feet. Marshal Thad Harlan was standing close to him, rain dripping from his hat and yellow slicker. He held a ten-gauge Greener in his hands, pointed square at McBride’s belly, and his riding crop hung from his left wrist.
McBride nodded toward Josephine. ‘‘I want this man charged with murder,’’ he said. ‘‘His name is—’’
‘‘I know his name,’’ Harlan said. He looked around the room and only then did his eyes fall on the dead cook. ‘‘What happened?’’ he asked McBride.
‘‘The girl must have spoken to you. Isn’t it obvious what happened?’’
‘‘No. You tell me.’’
‘‘Josephine was abusing the girl. The cook—’’
‘‘Axel Davis.’’
‘‘—tried to stop him. Josephine pulled his gun and shot him.’’
Harlan’s eyes dropped to the grieving waitress. ‘‘Mrs. Davis, was that the way of it?’’
‘‘Yes, damn him!’’ the woman screamed. ‘‘He killed my husband in cold blood. I want to see him hang.’’ She looked up at the marshal and her eyes were filled with fire. ‘‘You’ve hanged so many, Harlan, including some who didn’t deserve it. Now let’s see you hang one who does.’’
‘‘I’ll uphold the law, Mrs. Davis,’’ the lawman said. He spoke to Josephine. ‘‘Get up on your feet, Lance.’’
The man rose. He had taken his hands from his face and his ruined nose looked like a smashed red flower.
‘‘Who did that to you?’’ Harlan asked.
Josephine pointed at McBride and when he spoke he snuffled like a man with a bad cold. ‘‘He did. The saddle tramp hit me with a gun.’’